Hiraeth
by Kyasarina
Summary: "Hiraeth". A mixture of yearning, homesickness and wistfulness tinged with grief for those who are departed or lost to us. The earnest desire to return to the way things were in the past. Wales-centric. No pairings.


_**Hiraeth **_

**e-l-l-t-y-d-d - d-a-f-a-d - g-l-a-w-o-g-y-d-d**

The day was overcast, a normal weather type for the islands off the coast of Europe. Noticing the weather is a common hobby for its inhabitants. Case in point was a young man who walked along a sloping stony path. He looked up at the sky, shaking his head and muttering that rain was on its way.

The young man traipsed up a hill, disregarding his own pessimistic comments. Reaching the top quickly, he sank onto a rock and sighed, running a hand through his light brown hair.

He liked walking nowadays. It got him outside the house which he had to share with his brothers. He scowled. At least he hadn't got a headache every day when he had just lived with one brother, even if he had caught onto the idea of being the head of the house rather quickly.

A lot had changed. And he wasn't just thinking about a few centuries change, unions and alliances. Up in the mountains, he could pretend that all of two thousand years had not passed as the first drops of rain dropped from the sky.

A few mountain sheep plodded over to greet the familiar thick-browed face. Wales smiled and stroked the top of the nearest one's head. It bleated happily.

Wales frowned as he looked upwards, rain falling on his face. It was getting dark and not just from the rain-clouds. Sighing, he stood. The sheep understood and dispersed. Finding a position, they stopped and stood still as a group of fluffy statues.

"_Hwyl_," he said quietly, before wandering back down the hill.

**t-a-p-i-n - a-n-h-u-n-e-d-d - b-r-o-d-y-r**

Possibly the very worst part of the union was the fact that they all had to share the one bed.

Well, except Ireland. Being an island all by himself and last to 'join' the union he was lucky: he got a room to himself. Wales had sulked about that for hours once he'd found out about his sleeping arrangements.

The massive bed was admittedly comfortable. Made for high status people such as themselves, it was top-quality. Not that Wales got any sleep: the steady rhythm of the tugs from either side of the bed made it impossible to drift off.

Eventually, England spoke up. "Will. You. Stop. Stealing. My. Side?"

Scotland sat up. "Oh so it's _me_ whose stealing them."

England sat up too, not to be outdone. Even though he was not as tall as Scotland, his glare would have been more terrifying if he wasn't blinking with tiredness quite so much. "Yes. Yes it _is_ you who is stealing my covers. Stop."

"What are you talking about?" asked Scotland, a hard edge creeping into his voice. "I'm taking back the covers you took!"

"Like hell you are. Landmass dictates I get more." England's retort was punctuated by a sharp tug to the blanket. Scotland tugged back.

"Because you're _so _big and strong," Scotland jeered back. "I'm _older _than you. _I_ get more of the covers."

"I saved you!" The argument always, always managed to twist its way to that point. Wales rolled his eyes as the scripted dialogue continued.

"Who saved you from those muskets?" Scotland reminded him snidely.

"I'll have you know I can take care of myself quite well, thank you."

Wales groaned into the pillow. "_Brodyr_… can't we just go to sleep?"

The brothers' attention shifted to Wales for a second or two as they unanimously snapped an unnecessarily harsh 'no'. Their attention moved back to the argument as Scotland grabbed England by the front of his nightshirt. This led to England snapping something and soon the inevitable wrestling match began.

Too late to do anything about his awkward position at the side of the bed, Wales was kicked off the bed by one of the two. Muttering to himself, the man lay on the ground for a few minutes as the fight escalated, wondering if there was truth to the rumour that the floor was quite comfortable.

There wasn't any truth to it, he eventually decided.

"Screw you both, I'm sleeping with Ireland."

**g-w-e-l-y - t-a-n-g-n-e-f - b-a-n-e-r **

Out of all of Wales' brothers, his relationship with Ireland was quite possibly the best. It wasn't a particularly difficult accomplishment: England and Scotland weren't exactly the easiest of people to get along with.

Wales crept into the room, even controlling his breathing to be softer. It was very easy to wake Ireland. A lifetime of hardship had left him constantly on guard, even from within his dreams.

His hand accidentally caught on a piece of material. Opening a window ever so slightly, Wales held the mysterious material up to the moonlight. A Union Flag. Wasn't that surprising. And not a Welsh section in sight. Dropping the flag carelessly, Wales turned back to the bed, unsure whether or not to wake Ireland.

With a wince, he recalled how much recent events had taken their toll on the eldest of the dysfunctional British family. But still, it was probably best to tell Ireland he was there instead of him waking up to Wales in his bed…

"Hm? Who is it?"

Wales could have slapped himself in irritation. He had woken him up, even after all his anxiety. "It's me. Um… can I sleep in your bed tonight? They're fighting again." There was no need to specify on the 'their' identity.

"Don't see why not."

Wales smiled. "Thanks…" he slipped in and closed his eyes. Peace and stillness. How much you don't miss it until it's gone. It was just like the old times before politics and the intrigues of the court had sucked in his family.

"Night, Wales."

"Good night, Ireland…"

**t-e - f-f-r-w-g-w-d - n-e-w-y-d-d **

The night had been uneventful and Wales had had the best sleep he had had in months. Of course, as soon as he found himself in the presence of the two brothers who argued constantly, his headache came back.

"…Something to make yourself look like a decent member of society? It's only the King, after all."

Oh, not this argument again… Wales walked into the dining room, his spirits sinking through the floor.

"We see the King almost every day, Sasa. No need to get all excited," said Scotland snidely over his morning tea. Taking a sip, he leant back in his chair, watching England fume with a teasing glint in his green eyes.

"Haven't I told you to not call me that?" asked England, eyebrows twitching impressively.

"Does wee Sasa not like being talked to in a language he's never quite managed to understand? Oh, the poor baby."

"Good morning…" said Wales, interrupting the verbal match. Settling down in the chair that he had marked as his by decades of sitting on it for meals, he reached out for the teapot. After pouring himself a cup, he tested it. With a grimace, he realised that it was lukewarm. Deciding he couldn't be bothered finding warmer, he sipped it.

When he looked up, he saw that England had grabbed a morning paper and was hiding his face in it. Scotland seemed smug.

"Would you look at that, they're talking about redistributing the vote. Not that it'll happen soon…" said England.

Ireland glanced at the newspaper and choked on his toast. "Um… _Albain_?"

England may have frowned at the use of languages he couldn't understand but his expression was still hidden. Wales glanced at Scotland who frowned at Ireland's words. Ireland gestured towards England. Scotland peeked over at England before freezing. Acting quickly, he grabbed the newspaper away.

"Hey!" snapped England. "I was reading that! Give it back!" England - after a few attempts to regain the newspaper - snarled a few choice words and stormed off after gulping down the last of his tea.

"What was that all about?" asked Wales, when England was out of earshot. Scotland threw the newspaper back onto the table as an answer. Wales picked it up gingerly and read through the headlines before stopping at one that England had luckily missed:

"Oh. Right. America."

**h-i-r-a-e-t-h - d-a-g-r-a-u - l-l-e-d-r-i-t-h**

Wales was elected to go and find England - a meeting with the King was important, no matter how often they had to do it. He was always the peacemaker. It didn't matter if he might have a problem, there was always someone else with a complaint against another.

England's room was bare. So were the other likely spots. "Where the hell's _Lloegr_?" he grumbled. "The precious meeting's soon." Did England not want to be found? If he didn't, he was out of luck. Wales knew this house like the back of his hand.

Library, guest bedrooms, art hall, armoury-

Wales paused at a corridor. Glancing down it, his forehead crinkled in confusion. Not down there, surely? But there was nowhere else he could be… marching down it, he finally flung open the door that hid England.

"England? This is where you've been hiding? There's a meeting, remember? You were telling Scotland to dress up more for it…" Wales trailed off. "What are you doing?"

England turned around before he turned back quickly, realising that his tears were visible. "Oh, Wales. Could you give me a moment? I'll be there shortly."

Wales narrowed his eyes and leant back against the wall. "It's just a meeting, _Lloegr_. We can be late if you want to tell me what's wrong with you."

"Not you too! Meetings are extremely important!" said England indignantly.

"Did you hear the second part?" asked Wales, staring at his brother.

"I'm fine," said England. "There's nothing wrong."

Wales's stare intensified as England didn't move. "_Ffwlcyn_. You're crying," he said bluntly. "People don't cry for no reason. And no _cachu _about dust in your eyes."

A sudden venom crept through England's words. "Why do you think, brother?"

"…You saw it. Didn't you?" said Wales, horror creeping down his spine. England had never coped well with anything relating to the certain revolution thirty years prior.

"Did I have to read the newspaper to remind me what day it is today?"

Wales inwardly winced. "… I guess not."

England was silent. He had not taken his eyes off the mirror standing next to the wall. A hand came up and touched the frame. Wales saw only England in the reflection, but England was rapt.

"There's a meadow. It stretches far into the distance and there's wildflowers swaying in the breeze," said England softly. "Blondes, brunettes, redheads." His eyes dimmed. "The dead and those dead to me."

"Arthur… there's no-one there."

"Don't you think I know that?" muttered England defensively. "The fae gave it to me after Wessex was killed. They said that all those who I couldn't see anymore in real life, would be there. It's a relation to the missing Erised mirror. But in this we can only see what we've lost. What we did and did not want to."

Wales shivered internally. There was much one of their kind could lose and he wasn't sure he wanted to look in.

England sniffed and smiled. "I'll go on ahead. I don't mind if you want to look in. But once you do…" Wales nodded. It captivated you like Erised did.

England left the room quietly.

Wales touched the mirror, breathed softly and crept forward to peer in.

**u-f-e-l - c-a-d-a-i-r - f-o-r-y **

The meeting had been boring, as usual. Wales sat by the fire, drinking some tea that he had made absolutely sure was not lukewarm.

He leant back in the uncomfortable armchair and gazed into the flames. Today, he had had a civil conversation with England. That involved the subject of post-Revolution America. A strange happening. He apparently had a magic mirror with all things lost in its depths. He had seen all he'd lost.

All in all, despite the meeting, the day had not been boring.

Who knew what tomorrow would bring?

* * *

><p><strong>Hwyl: <strong>_Goodbye_

**Ffwlcyn: **_Fool/Idiot_**  
><strong>

**Cachu: **_Shit_

**Elltydd, Dafad, Glawogydd: **_Hills, Sheep, Rain_

**Tapin, Anhunedd, Brodyr: **_Blanket, Sleeplessness, Brothers_

**Gwely, Tangnef, Baner: **_Bed, Peace, Flag_

**Te, Ffrwgwd, Newydd:** _Tea, Squabble, News_

**Ufel, Cadair, Fory:** _Fire, Chair, Tomorrow_

**Lledrith, Dagrau**_ Illusion/Magic/Hallucination/Phantasm, Tears_

**Hiraeth:**_ No direct English translation_. _However, the University of Wales, Lampeter attempts to define it as homesickness tinged with grief or sadness over the lost or departed. It is a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness, and the earnest desire for the Wales of the past. _


End file.
